


Silver Linings

by araliya



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 15:07:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13526835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/araliya/pseuds/araliya
Summary: For this AU prompt: I’m a waiter at this wedding and you’re a drunk guest who will not stop hitting on me please I’m trying to work no I can’t dance with you omg let me find you some water





	Silver Linings

**Author's Note:**

> For the anon who wanted AU!CrissColfer. Hope you like it, love!
> 
> The song used is These Words by Natasha Bedingfield.

Chris hates weddings.

 

He hates the pushy guests, the hysterical parents, the long-winded speeches, the awkward vows, the shameful dancing, the goddamn _latecomers-_ the whole shebang. Okay so he’s not _completely_ cold-hearted- he can’t deny that it’s cute seeing two people practically trip over each other in haste to get married, while their moony-eyed guests dab at their cheeks and smudge their makeup over it.

 

It’s just that being a waiter at one just means he ends up witnessing more of the unsavoury events of the night, like the head chef having a panic attack over the hors d'oeuvres or that one couple who decides to have sex in the bathroom, for literally _everyone_ to hear.

 

So far tonight, Chris has had the pleasure of cleaning up after one guest who had a few too many pre-game shots (seriously, this is the _wedding_ , not the bachelor party), watching some girl accidentally-on-purpose spill wine on another girl’s dress, and from what he can see, it’s only about to get worse.

 

The parents at this one are the ones who look like the world might end if the whole thing isn’t _perfect_ , and Chris can’t keep track of the amount of times he’s been told to straighten the flower arrangements or refill the glasses. In Chris’ opinion, the wedding’s already a lost cause; the couple this time is one of those obnoxious hippie ones, flower crowns and sandals to boot.

 

To top it off, the five-year old ring bearer had tripped and sent the amber (yes, _amber_ ) rings flying, the vows had literally just been several inside jokes strung together (resulting in the awkward forced laughter of the guests), and right after their first dance, the bride had theatrically ripped off the bottom half of her tulle gown to reveal a dangerously short skirt, and the mother-in-law had almost fainted in horror.

 

All in all, Chris just wants to go home.

 

He’s carefully collecting empty glasses onto a platter to take into the kitchens when he notices someone hovering behind him, and not in the I’m-just-another-bored-guest-staring-at-the-ceiling-because-I’m-too-embarrassed-to-dance kind of way.

 

Chris schools a well-practiced look of pleasantry onto his face before he turns around, overful platter in hand. And promptly almost drops it.

 

There’s a man standing in front of him, bouncing on the balls of his feet so eagerly that Chris is almost dizzy looking at him.

 

“Hi!”

 

Chris doesn’t let the polite expression on his face slip, no matter how hard his jaw is trying to drop. The man looks to be about college-aged, with tumbling black curls and wide eyes that sparkle with either excitement or alcohol- probably both. His cheeks are flushed, an adorable contrast to the sharp line of his jaw and-

 

_Nope. Nopety-fucking-nope. He’s a guest, Colfer. Can it._

 

“Can I help you?” Chris asks politely, ignoring the fact that his face is probably crimson.

 

“You should dance with me!” The man says earnestly. “I mean- uh, not to force you or anything, but would you like to? Dance with me, I mean?”

 

Chris’ eyes widen, and he thinks, either this man is incredibly stupid (and _hot_ ), or he’s just blind drunk. “I’m so sorry, but I’m working.” He gestures to his outfit with his free hand, and then to the empty glasses.

 

“Oh, shit! Yeah, yeah!” The man is now adorably flustered, fingers flitting to the curls flopping over his eyes. “I mean, I saw you and I thought you looked really cute, and those _legs,_ man- you’d be an _amazing_ dancer-”

 

Yep, drunk. Fantastically so. Chris has to remind himself that this would never happen under normal circumstances.

 

“I’m really sorry,” Chris says again, and he actually is. Even though the only reason he’s being asked is because this guy is probably smashed, Chris has never really danced with a guy before and he’d like the experience. Unfortunately, his boss (who also doubles as his cousin when she’s not working), would have a bitch fit.

 

“I totally understand,” the guy says, nodding and waving his hands apologetically. Chris would probably laugh at how gesticulate he was, if it weren’t for the fact that it made him even more endearing. His eyes are hopeful and puppy-like when he looks at Chris.

 

“Can I at least get your name?”

 

He can’t stop a small smile from escaping. “Chris.”

 

“Chris.” The guy rolls his name around on his tongue, and it should _not_ sound that hot coming out of his mouth. He sticks a hand out. “I’m Darren.”

 

Chris has to wobble the platter precariously on his left in order to shake it. Darren’s palm is warm and solid underneath his.

 

“I’ll see you around?” he asks hopefully, and Chris’ fingers tingle.

 

“Sure!” he replies brightly. _You’re working, don’t get your hopes up, he’s drunk anyway, Clara would_ kill _you-_

 

Darren grins (and oh god, his knees are _jelly_ ), and Chris watches as he walks back into the crowd on the dance floor.

 

***

 

The next time Chris sees Darren, he’s serving Pineapple Daiquiris to several ladies with their heels dangling from their hands. He’s only just turned away when he spots Darren dancing enthusiastically to the pulsing music, lithe and beautiful, muscles straining under the rhythm. Chris’ mouth runs dry and he tries to look away, but it’s too late- Darren’s already caught his eye over his shoulder.

 

Chris flushes down to his roots, and thanks _god_ when Clara, his cousin, waves him over to help her with the Rio Bravos.

 

***

 

Another thing Chris hates about weddings is how _long_ they go for. The words ‘Evening Reception’ are honestly enough to have him running for the hills.

 

There’s something inherently depressing about spending a Saturday night watching two people in love dance into the wee hours while being surrounded by adoring guests and extravagant desserts, not only reminding you that you’re incredibly single and have never experienced that kind of love, but also that you’re not actually allowed to eat any of those desserts.

 

Chris is in the kitchens, wiping the champagne glasses free of water, when the swing door opens heavily and someone topples in.

 

It’s Darren, bowtie askew, blazer shucked off, and hair a mass of tangled curls that Chris would love to run his hands through…

 

_Oh for fuck’s sake Colfer, we need an appropriate reaction here?_

 

“Oh my god, _what_ are you doing here?” Chris yelps, and _that’s better, idiot._

 

“I missed you,” Darren replies plaintively, and Chris gawps.

 

“You missed me,” he repeats.

 

“Uh huh! Like, dancing’s fun and all, but it’s no fun when you haven’t got a partner, and you’d be a good partner but you’re _working_ , so I gotta dance and be sad on my own, and just be fine with thinking about you.”

 

He says all of this in one breath, eyes shining, and Chris’ jaw is still somewhere on the ground.

 

“What time do you get off work?” Darren asks, and Chris has to physically check that his voice still works.

 

“I- uh, when all the guests go home?”

 

Darren pouts and then his eyes suddenly light up, holding a hand out to Chris like a very drunk, and rather dishevelled, prince. “We can dance in here! You can still hear the music!”

 

“We’re in the hotel kitchens, Darren.”

 

Darren spreads his hands wildly. “There’s no one here!”

 

The kitchen _is_ relatively empty, since the dinner rush is long over; the cooks must have either hightailed it home as soon as possible, or are around the back having a smoke, not having been able to escape without Clara’s notice.

 

“Why do you want to dance with me so much?” Chris asks, and his voice is suddenly, and embarrassingly quiet.

 

Darren looks at him like he’s just asked why water is wet. “Because you look bored, and beautiful, and there’s music which you could be dancing to.”

 

He holds his hand out again, and Chris stares at it for a moment before setting down the glass he’s holding and taking this ridiculous man’s hand.

 

_If Clara finds them…_

 

As soon as their skin comes into contact, Darren tugs him close. Chris laughs in spite of himself, the momentary shock of _oh god he’s right here what do I do with my hands this is so awkward_ giving way to the kind of casual intimacy Chris has never really experienced. He loops his arms around Darren’s neck, and lets his body sway to the fluttering rhythm of Natasha Bedingfield’s _These Words_ , drifting through from the reception room.

 

“ _These words are my own, from my heart flow_ ,” Darren sings, his breath tickling Chris’ ear.

 

“You’re impossible.”

 

“Shhh,” Darren chides him, placing a finger on his lips. “We’re having a moment.”

 

Chris doesn’t even hear him speak- he’s too busy frozen in shock at the feel of Darren on his skin. His eyes cross as he stares at Darren’s index finger, and then slowly drift up his face, to meet his eyes. They’re hazel.

 

They’ve stopped dancing, probably due to Chris _freaking out like an idiot,_ but Darren’s hand trails across his face to cup his jaw.

 

“Hi,” he whispers.

 

“Hi,” Chris whispers back.

 

And then Darren kisses him, all soft lips and the faint taste of cherries, and suddenly Chris really, _really_ likes weddings.

 


End file.
